I thought the hardest part of visiting my husband’s grave would always be saying goodbye. But on the fifth anniversary of his death, I found a black bag beside his headstone. I almost walked away. Something made me reach for the zipper instead.
My husband, Paul, died five years ago in a highway accident.
He was 34.
Every year on the anniversary, I take the morning off and visit his grave.
I bring yellow flowers.
Paul always bought them for our kitchen table.
People tell me I should move on.
I have.
I work.
I see friends.
I’ve even been on a few dates.
But once a year, I still visit him.
This year, my sister Sarah offered to come.
“Thanks. I want to go alone.”
I stopped for coffee on my way.
At the flower shop, the woman asked whether I wanted a card.
“No. He knows who they’re from.”
I felt foolish afterward.
Like they had every year before.
I parked and followed the familiar gravel path.
Then I noticed something beside Paul’s headstone.
A black canvas bag.
Zipped shut.
No name.
“Hello?”
Nobody answered.
I called the cemetery office.
The woman said nobody had reported a missing bag.
I should have waited.
Instead, I crouched.
The bag was dry, although it had rained overnight.
Someone had left it recently.
I put down my flowers.
A photograph lay on top.
I picked it up.
And froze.
Paul.
My dead husband.
About seven years old.
Her arms were wrapped around his neck.
And he was smiling at her.
Not like a stranger.
Like a father.
“My beautiful girl. Love, Dad.”
My knees gave way.
I sat hard against the headstone.
Dad?
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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